children, Fiction, life, literature, poems, poetry, poetry readings, Uncategorized, writer, writing

Friday Night Poetry Corner #168-How I Learned to Walk

Good evening everyone and welcome to another Friday Night Poetry Corner. This week, the fantastic poet Javier Zamora poem called “How I Learned to Walk” is an introspective, descriptive piece that is brilliantly written. He is an amazing poet.

How I Learned to Walk


Calláte. Don’t say it out loud: the color of his hair,

the sour odor of his skin, the way they say

his stomach rose when he slept. I have

done nothing, said nothing. I piss in the corner

of the room, the outhouse is far, I think

orange blossoms call me to eat them. I fling rocks

at bats hanging midway up almond trees.

I’ve skinned lizards. I’ve been bored. It’s like

that time I told my friend Luz to rub her lice

against my hair. I wanted to wear a plastic bag,

to smell of gasoline, to shave my hair, to feel

something like his hands on my head.

When I clutch pillows, I think of him. If he sleeps

facedown like I do. If he can tie strings

to the backs of dragonflies. I’ve heard

of how I used to run to him. His hair still

smelling of fish, gasoline, and seaweed. It’s how

I learned to walk they say. Calláte. If I step

out this door, I want to know nothing will take me.

Not the van he ran to. Not the man he paid to take him.

Mamá Pati was asleep when he left. People say

somehow I walked across our cornfield

at dawn, a few steps behind. I must have seen him

get in that van. I was two. I sat behind a ceiba tree,

waiting. No one could find me.

dark poetry, Fiction, life, literature, poems, poetry, poetry readings, Women, Women's History Month, writer, writing

A Story For Rose On The Midnight Flight To Boston-Friday Night Poetry Corner #167

Good day everyone and welcome to another Friday Night Poetry Corner! Continuing with the theme of Women History Month, here is a famous poet who brief introduction is this:

Anne Sexton (November 9, 1928 – October 4, 1974) was an American poet, known for her highly personal, confessional verse. She won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1967 for her book Live or Die. Her poetry details her long battle with depression, suicidal tendencies, and various intimate details from her private life, including her relationships with her husband and children.


I was first introduced to Anne Sexton in college and I enjoyed her poetry immensely. Here is a personal favorite of mines and I hope you guys will enjoy…

A Story For Rose On The Midnight Flight To Boston

Until tonight they were separate specialties,

different stories, the best of their own worst.

Riding my warm cabin home, I remember Betsy’s

laughter; she laughed as you did, Rose, at the first

story. Someday, I promised her, I’ll be someone

going somewhere and we plotted it in the humdrum

school for proper girls. The next April the plane

bucked me like a horse, my elevators turned

and fear blew down my throat, that last profane

gauge of a stomach coming up. And then returned

to land, as unlovely as any seasick sailor,

sincerely eighteen; my first story, my funny failure.

Maybe Rose, there is always another story,

better unsaid, grim or flat or predatory.

Half a mile down the lights of the in-between cities

turn up their eyes at me. And I remember Betsy’s

story, the April night of the civilian air crash

and her sudden name misspelled in the evening paper,

the interior of shock and the paper gone in the trash

ten years now. She used the return ticket I gave her.

This was the rude kill of her; two planes cracking

in mid-air over Washington, like blind birds.

And the picking up afterwards, the morticians tracking

bodies in the Potomac and piecing them like boards

to make a leg or a face. There is only her miniature

photograph left, too long now for fear to remember.

Special tonight because I made her into a story

that I grew to know and savor.

A reason to worry,

Rose, when you fix an old death like that,

and outliving the impact, to find you’ve pretended.

We bank over Boston. I am safe. I put on my hat.

I am almost someone going home. The story has ended.



by Anne Sexton

dark fiction, dark writing, dystopian, dystopian fiction, fantasy, fantasy, Fiction, future fiction, K.G. Bethlehem, literature, science fiction, space fantasy, Uncategorized, urban fiction, writer, writing


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